The First Casualty
by Talktidy
Summary: Chapters 3 & 4 now up. Story previously called His Mother's Child. I was never happy with my title, hence a rename. Before Spock ever entertains the notion of joining Starfleet, a new foe of the Federation emerges, and events in the galaxy conspire to put his life on a different path. Along the way a young Sub-Lieutenant Spock meets a young Ensign Kirk.
1. Chapter 1: A New Dawn

**Introductory Notes**

Many moons ago, I posted a snippet of this tale under the title _His Mother's Child, _in a bid for some feedback I hoped would induce me to keep my nose to the grindstone. I was not exactly sold on that title, hence the rename to _The First Casualty_. I am now posting a reworked first chapter and a new second. I am also doing what I swore I never would: posting before the piece is completed — in fact it is only part written, but I do have a very extensive outline and my first draft was a fair ways in. However, if I take a wrong turn, I might well unpick a chapter and go again, so just for you to be aware.

This fic started life when I wondered what might happen if Spock never made it to Starfleet — no, wait! don't go! Come back! T'Pring buys it in the opening and doesn't get her claws into Spock, honest. There's gonna be space battles and everything. Where was I? Oh yes, since I cannot envisage Trek without the Kirk/Spock friendship, I want to know the how, why and when they make each other's acquaintance. Just to warn you, but I thought it would be more fun if they didn't get along to start with. No, don't go! I said _to start with_.

I originally envisaged this with Romulans as the bad guys, but the way I was writing them, they didn't comply with canon. Also, since the Trek reboot already went down that track, I thought it better to get me some different antagonists.

If you like your Kirk/Spock on the slashy side, you'll be disappointed here.

Needless to say, this is an AU and probably not everyone's cup of tea, but I'll do my best to make reading this thing as entertaining as possible and worth your while.

Anybody out there interested in being my beta?

Second fair warning: I never met a comma I didn't love.

xxx

Author's Note: Gerent (pronounced jeer-uh nt) is actually a real word and means a person who rules or manages. I didn't know that until a few days ago.

xxx

**Disclaimer: ** I love these characters — would that they were mine.

xxx

In war, truth is the first casualty ~ Aeschylus

xxx

Time to die.

His captors no longer came to his cell to torture him; instead they now appraised him with an altogether more favourable eye.

An astonishingly distrustful species these Pasherini, quick to resort to torture to discover what they wished to know. Important then that what he disclosed should come when he was in apparent extremis and not before. Were he any creature other than an instrument of his Gods he might have truly broken under such treatment, but his conditioning kept his real secrets safe. The Pasherini would never know he had intentionally travelled here to this point in time. The Bajoran's strange instrument had been far more effective than he had ever expected. Silly Bajorans and their equally silly heresies, but he could not fault the technology: the orb had worked without flaw.

The Pasherini, beat the security codes out of him that they might access his ship's library. It would garner a welter of new discoveries and new technologies, enough to sidetrack them from demanding he account for how he had arrived in their space. Eventually they would discover the ship's log contained a feasible narrative of a space-time discontinuity to aid his subterfuge, sufficient to satisfy the inevitable questions that would arise in the fullness of time.

His Gods had deliberated and selected the Pasherini, because they were distrustful, besieged and desperate. They were greedy for the benefits of what his ship's resources offered and not slow to calculate the effect of unleashing this new bounty upon their overweening rivals.

His Gods were clever. He had seen the future and it was glorious.

xxx

Juka steeled himself against the fury of his superior.

Gerent Marterok, face like thunder, stared at the body lying on the floor of the dank cell. "How did he die, Juka?"

"We are endeavouring to discover that, Gerent. A preliminary investigation points to the prisoner self-terminating."

"Poison?"

"It would seem so, sir." He gathered his cloak tighter about him and stared at the prisoner's body, ashamed that death always discommoded him, the prisoner's battered flesh even more so. Yet, something about this death also troubled him in quite a different manner.

Marterok knew him well. "Out with it, Juka."

"Sir?"

"Tell me."

"My misgivings stem from the prisoner deciding now was the opportune point at which to kill himself."

"One would suppose the creature could take no more of our questioning."

"A logical conclusion, except that he had weathered the worst excesses of our interrogation methods, which had, in fact, ceased by this time. Why not end his agonies earlier?"

"Well, we are not likely to discover that now."

"No, we shall not." He had nothing other than a vague feeling of disquiet, but the notion they were caught up in an opening gambit of a much larger game persisted. He looked on in silence as Marterok indicated the body might now be removed for a post mortem to be conducted. The prisoner subjected to one last indignity of his remains delivering up what else might be gleaned from an examination of his species.

Marterok watched the attendants encase the remains in a body bag. "Did you ever learn the prisoner's name?"

"Weyoun."

Marterok allowed himself a huff of amused dismissal. "A name only a barbarian would glory in. Still, his advent in our lives offers new, exciting times ahead, my young friend. We are on the cusp of a new era."

A new era of foolishness? Ambition matched only by hubris? It would not do to utter the sentiments aloud, though. Marterok appreciated and indulged his waywardness, a source of much amusement, but even his patron's indulgence had its limits.

"We shall have the means of dissuading Romulan incursions into our territory." Marterok laughed, full throated, eager for the future. "Now, young Juka, tell me how is my sister and that family of yours?"

"Ever growing. We are to be blessed with another child."

"Ha!" A slap on the back followed. "Come, I have not forgotten you promised to feed me and I am hungry."

xxx

It was just after Spock's seventeenth birthday, in the spring of the new year, that Sickness came to Vulcan.

The Sickness left a trail of fear and apprehension in its path that, however much his people might endeavour to suppress and conceal, was apparent to anyone who choose to see and there were some offworlders without the grace to be blind, offworlders whose sympathies were all the more aroused because the Sickness afflicted those on the cusp of adulthood.

Healers and medical professionals, whether from Vulcan or from other parts of the Federation, were divided on the disquieting notion the Sickness might be a biological weapon, a notion only entertained because of gathering strife in the galaxy. Evidence cited for this hypothesis was the narrow focus of those stricken. Whatever the truth of such conjecture, the search for a cure became more urgent as the numbers succumbing to illness mounted and the gravity of the situation manifested itself as deaths ensued.

He overheard his parents, Sarek and Amanda, consider that now was an opportune time for their child to visit Earth and explore his Terran heritage, except before any such arrangements might be put into place, Vulcan was quarantined, and quarantined with a degree of zeal bearing an unfortunate side effect: Vulcans, returning to their world for urgent business with their families, were denied permission to descend to the surface. Vulcans, who then went on to exhibit interesting medical symptoms of their own. At least one death occurred before disclosing mortifying details became an unavoidable necessity and the remainder of those stranded in orbit were then allowed to the surface without further hindrance.

In the absence of removing his child from Vulcan, his father considered the alternatives, and decided on removing himself from his household to his place of employment. His work brought him into proximity with numerous individuals: Vulcans and offworlders. He would not countenance one of them being a vector of infection to his son. It said everything about his mother's state of mind that she, who loathed being parted from Sarek, helped his father pack with quiet efficiency.

At the evening meal, his father confirmed arrangements for his removal. Spock regarded him gravely and nodded in quiet thought, but said little in response, instead turning his attention to his pale and pensive mother, plainly worried beneath a tottering façade of composure, and promptly steered the conversation to talk of other matters. Neither he, nor Sarek had mentioned that T'Pring, his promised bondmate, was ill.

In the event, his father's stay at the embassy was short lived. On the third day, his mother summoned Sarek home. Despite all precautions, he had contracted the Sickness.

He thought his Terran heritage might have spared him, but he burned with fever. His mother nursed him, doing her utmost to keep his temperature down and, in narrowing windows of lucidity, concern for her grew, as dark smudges appeared beneath her eyes, but she would not fully surrender her care of him.

Spock warred with delirium for five days. On the sixth, the fever broke. He surfaced into consciousness, blinking in confusion, when his mother burst into silent, relieved tears over him, and was moved to offer her a reassuring squeeze on her hand. From that point on his recovery gathered momentum and two days later, he was out of bed, although Sarek exerted paternal authority enough to forbid Spock not to over extend himself.

He observed the days that unfolded with a grim fortitude. The Sickness moved apace through the population of Vulcan's youth and the death toll mounted. The day after his fever broke, news came that it had claimed T'Pring. He might secretly have considered that his parents selection of T'Pring as a bondmate had been a mistake, but he would not have wished to be released in such a fashion. An elderly cousin of T'Pring's mother made the announcement; it was said the distress of T'Pring's parents was so palpable, they had sequestered themselves away from the sight of others.

As the season wore on and deaths began to plateau, T'Pring's demise presented an immediate issue requiring urgent address, one that concerned his future well-being. Vulcan's youth began to recover from the Sickness and tentatively resume their lives. Tentatively, for it seemed all of Vulcan held its breath, wondering if a population tested by pandemic would incite ancient drives into action.

Such trepidation was indeed warranted. Twelve days after he recovered from the Sickness, he burned with an altogether different affliction.

A day after he took T'Pring's cousin, T'Mia, to bondmate, the probable author of the Sickness was revealed. The Pasherin, a hitherto little known race, committed an unprovoked attack on Federation colonies, on Federation trading outposts, and a fleet of alarming capability engaged and bested Vulcan forces in the skies above their own world. Attacks replicated on other targets throughout the Federation.

For the first time in an age, Vulcan was at war.

xxx

Classmates watched his progress towards the Commandant's office, looking on with either concern or relish for his anticipated fate. James T Kirk returned their looks with an equanimity he was not feeling

Evidently, someone had betrayed him. Finnegan?

He tried to calculate the bill for his little switcheroo.

A demerit on his record? Almost certainly.

Punishment detail for anywhere between a month and the best part of eight months — what remained of his second year at the academy, in other words? Very likely.

Dismissal from the Academy? No, he would not countenance that. An inner voice told him he was deluding himself, that he might be clearing out his room within the hour.

The last consideration made him feel ill. Apologise and throw himself upon the mercy of the Commandant or brazen it out, talk fast and present a defence? — in a time of war a commander, with the lives of his crew to consider, did not have the luxury of adhering to Marquess of Queensbury Rules. If a piece of skulduggery might ensure his crew's survival, why should a commander consider such a tactic a forbidden luxury?

He arrived at the Commandant's office. It was an ominous sign that at his approach, the expression on the face of the Commandant's personal assistant, Stuart Zinman, dallied with what could only be considered pity. Kirk's hackles rose at that, the inclination toward taking the fight to his superiors already hardening. He offered a polite, if curt nod, surprised when Stuart actually entered the Commandant's office to quietly announce his arrival, surprised further when Commandant Mendez came out of his office and ushered him within, a fatherly arm extended toward him. They were not alone. Grace Smith rose to her feet at his entry and Kirk halted in his tracks, understanding at last why this was not going in accordance with the script.

Sam.

This scenario had played out at least a dozen times with other classmates that he was aware of since the beginning of the academic year. Far better the reprimand, far better he be thrown out on his ear, than the news the Academy's Chief Counsellor was about to impart.

His brother was serving as a medical technician aboard _Constellation_. How their parents had fought over what they considered an epic waste of a hard won training as a biologist. Sam had bitched that they were pissed because his position didn't warrant a commission and fancy braid on a uniform sleeve, which he had thought was a low blow and beneath his brother. That had really made his parents mad and neither they, nor Sam had spoken again, until well after Sam had received his first posting to _Wasp_. He frowned. On Sam's last shore leave on Earth he'd bitched about the lack of action _Constellation_ was seeing, that she was patrolling along the Andorian system, which Sam regarded as little more than a milk run.

He'd been nudged toward a sofa and he registered with a distant part of his attention that he was seated. His tongue had adhered to the roof of his mouth, but at last he grated out, "My brother?"

The expression on Grace Smith's face flickered in confusion; the Commandant helped her out. "Jim's brother, George Kirk, is serving aboard _Constellation_."

"Jim, it's not _Constellation_," Grace Smith said. Kirk looked at her, confusion giving way to comprehension. "The _Lucy_ was set upon by an Orion privateer. The crew managed to get out a distress call, but when our own patrols arrived—"

"My parents." It wasn't a question, he knew what Orion privateers did to a ship. Grab any strong and comely creatures they might sell for a profit. Liquidate the remainder. Locusts.

"—there wasn't much left of her. I am very sorry, Jim. There were no survivors."

No, this wasn't right. It just wasn't right. He stared at Grace Smith, his mouth shaping words that would not come. And he'd fretted over the _Kobayashi Maru?_ Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up. Some things would not respond to a little recalibration here, a little finessing there.

Some things could not be overcome, after all.

xxx


	2. Chapter 2: Leavetaking

The pin of the collar flash impaled a thumb and he winced. It seemed his fine motor skills were still affected.

"Need a little assistance, Sub-Lieutenant Spock?" T'Mia murmured into his ear. Arms stole around his form and embraced him from behind.

He turned and corralled the playful excesses of her hands.

"I have always thought you looked most elegant in your fleet uniform, but I believe it is a little unfinished, sir." She gently disengaged a hand, drew a small case out of a pocket and brandished it in front of his nose.

"I had wondered where they had gone."

T'Mia already had the case open and held the collar flashes in the palm of her hand, flashes that signalled his quitting the auxiliaries in favour of serving as a front line regular.

"You'll need to stoop a little."

He obliged; his bondmate made short work of the new insignia and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"The uniform suits you, Spock."

"The uniform itches and the collar strangles me. I do not understand the requirement for a high collar and boots. It seems astonishingly pre-reform to me."

T'Mia raised an eyebrow at him. "At least the current dress code does not prescribe hair braids. Nevertheless, you look quite the part, quite the fleet officer, my husband." Something flickered in her gaze, but she stepped back; a conscious effort to let him go, wherever he must.

He took the small case from her and placed it in the backpack he'd filled earlier and left upon their bed.

"Spock, is that the full extent of your luggage?"

"It is."

"So little?"

"Sufficient. My needs will be met by the service."

T'Mia gave his backpack another dubious eyebrow, but forestalled saying anything else and they lapsed into an awkward silence.

He was the first to break. He offered her the finger touch. "You are well?"

"You are fussing over me again. I am well." It was his turn to look dubious. "I am emotional. It is as expected, though; the usual elevated hormone levels. It is why we women sequester ourselves for an average of 12.7 days in the aftermath."

"This did not happen last time." He forbore to mention that, his mother, being Terran, had made him unaware of such a necessity.

"Last time we were so young, I do not think we knew what went where."

He blushed.

"Our immaturity spared us the full brunt of your cycle. Perhaps it is I who should ask if you are well."

"I am in health." Unbidden a memory slashed and burned through his mind, a feeling that he was fracturing, descending into a hot constriction of endless dark; T'Mia giving his fears short shrift, taking command of him, showing him the way back to the light, keeping him safe. His control was still ragged after his time and he did his utmost to suppress a shudder of dread. Another image flooded his senses, a naked T'Mia wrapped around him, urging him to completion. He blushed again. "I should have been more specific earlier when I asked if you were well. I should have asked if you yet know if there have been consequences?"

T'Mia averted her gaze.

His eyebrows shot up. "My wife?"

She sat upon the bed, an agitated hand playing with the hem of her robe. "My hormone levels are dropping slowly, which may be a likely indication I am pregnant."

There was a buzzing in his ears and his knees felt as though they would collapse. "How is this possible?"

T'Mia gave him a look his mother, were she still with them, would have described as impish.

"I do not mean…" He blushed again, unequal to discussing physical intimacies even with his cherished bondmate. He collapsed into a seated position next to T'Mia and sought out her hand. "Forgive me for asking a question to which I thought I already knew the answer, but after our last time, I thought my Terran heritage made me infertile. I confess I asked the question merely to confirm it was ruled out. This changes everything. I should stay at home. With you."

"No, you should not!"

They both looked startled at her vehemence.

"Hormones again," she said. "Spock, you should not. Not because I wish you away from me, but because I know how much you wish to enter fleet service. You have wanted this for a long time. Now that the computer redesigns you worked on, at your father behest, are complete, you are free to pursue your own goals and Vulcan has need of good officers. I think you will be an outstanding one, my husband." When she saw the stubborn cast of his jaw, she added, "also, we must be sensible of the prospect that if I am indeed pregnant, it may still not progress to term."

He shifted on the bed and looked away. "Then that is even more reason why I should be with you to lend my support. I was very young, but I well remember what my mother experienced when she miscarried. You may become very ill and require a bondmate's strength—"

This time T'Mia offered the mind touch, his fingers met hers and he sensed her amusement through the link. "That is very kind of you, dearest, but I hardly think it will come to that. We are physically far more compatible than your parents."

"You really are well?"

"I am," she said, and met his eyes. "I will confess the prospect of becoming a parent is something that is a source of considerable trepidation."

"I doubt any potential parent feels equal to the task."

Neither of them made any mention of the Sickness, which seven years later remained a scourge, no matter the resources Vulcan committed to finding a cure. These days deaths were fewer, but deaths there were. The Sickness haunted what should have been a joyful announcement.

"I shall be well, husband. My parents are cautiously pleased that there may be a child and I have the resources of my family to call upon."

"You have access to our account. My own resources are yours as you well know, although you have always been reluctant to draw upon them."

"Because until now I have had little need to do so. If required, then I shall. I shall want for nothing, husband." T'Mia rose to her feet, took his hands in her own and drew him up to stand beside her. She smoothed the lines of his tunic and he knew his bondmate was resisting adding an 'except for you' addendum to that sentence. There were tears in her eyes; she brushed moisture away from her cheeks. "I said I was emotional. I am hormone addled. Forgive me, Spock."

"How can I possibly castigate you for something for which I am the direct cause?" He opened his arms and T'Mia embraced him, clung to him with fierce strength.

"Do you know I did not want to marry you?"

"I had heard you were not at all pleased to be matched to the Terran."

"Foolishness. Now I can not imagine you not being part of my life. Forgive me for burdening you with my fears, but since logic and propriety have absented itself from me this day, I exhort you to keep yourself safe, Spock. Come back to me. Do not make me a widow."

xxx

In light of T'Mia's news, Spock decided exercise would benefit him and he chose to walk to the headquarters of the Vulcan High Guard, and was engrossed in his own thoughts. His inattention was understandable, though hardly wise, as four hooded figures, who emerged from the darkness at the outer periphery of the High Guard complex, suggested.

Their clothing placed them as Terrans. Since the advent of the war, that usually meant trouble and only a fool would not be wary of them. It was unfortunate he had just endured his latest fires, because he answered a perceived threatening move with another equally provoking: he fell into a fighting crouch, back against a wall, before he had time to modify his response. The Terrans flinched and backed away.

A thread of alarm bled over his link to his bondmate and it was this more than anything else that centred him, made him take stock. He quieted his thoughts and sent reassurance to T'Mia.

The lead Terran held up a cautionary hand to his companions and turned back to face him, movements measured and considered. He surprised him with a punctilious bow. "Sub-Lieutenant Spock."

"I am he," he said, although it had not been a question.

"Good evening, sir."

"Good evening," he replied. The interaction summoned a memory to the forefront of his mind, his mother saying, _Good manners cost nothing, Spock_.

"I apologise for our subterfuge in seeking you out here. We received information you would be attending Guard HQ and we merely wished to speak to you."

"I see," he said. What source their information and how acquired? His reflexes still insisted the situation was a threat and it took all of his concentration to calm himself. It helped when the other Terrans followed their spokesman's lead and made their postures as consciously unthreatening as possible. A mixed group of ages: three men, one woman.

"You are Sarek and Amanda Grayson's son."

An eyebrow rose. "My mother died in the Pasherin attack on the Andorian Embassy seven years ago, but as this is information readily obtained, I anticipate you are already well aware of that." Why did he receive the impression the man before him found it difficult to come to the point?

The female member of their band huffed annoyance. "Stop beating about the bush, Macey."

Well, quite.

"It has come—"

"Honestly, Macey," said the woman; she rounded on him. "We have heard there is a Federation Delegation coming to Vulcan and that they will be part of the Pasherin-Vulcan summit."

"Crashing the summit, you mean," Macey muttered in an undertone.

"Indeed?" He'd heard much the same. They'd mentioned his father, so he had an idea where the conversation was headed.

"We want to go home!" the woman said. This started an outpouring of complaint and anguish from the others.

"We don't belong here. Vulcan no longer recognises our Federation citizenship. We have no status. We are unpeople."

"I have been stranded here for the past seven years. I have a bondmate back home; my boy is growing up without me."

"What do you know about the upcoming High Council vote?"

"Vulcan must open the Corridan passage."

"If Vulcan won't let us out, then let us in. Give us citizenship. I would serve aboard a Vulcan ship and take the fight to the Pasherini in a heartbeat."

Yes, this was moving in the direction he'd anticipated, but just so there was no confusion, he would have them spell it out. "I am a very junior officer in Vulcan's forces, who until yesterday was not even on the active service list. I fail to see how I may effect a solution to your ills."

"Your father. We ask that you intercede for us, sir," said Macey. "Sarek is a very powerful man. If you convinced him to help us, if he set his mind to it, we know he could repatriate us at the very least."

Sarek.

He summoned all the disciplines and the gaze he trained upon these Terrans was the blandest he could muster. He had no desire to confess his relationship with his father had deteriorated since the Pasherin came and his mother was lost in the attack, even less would he care to admit that now he and Sarek were barely on speaking terms. Perhaps matters would have been different if Sarek had not obstructed his path to serving in the Guard at every turn, if he had not sought to use his mixed heritage to disqualify him and to demean him as unsuitable. He took it as read Sarek did not trust him to behave with a proper Vulcan decorum under pressure. Sarek had employed the authority of a father against him, cloaking it in the guise of protection. Only T'Mia knew his humiliation and hurt.

"You misread matters. You have surely been on Vulcan long enough to understand elders accommodate the excesses of our youth under sufferance. I might speak to Sarek, but I foresee him taking little account of any such application made by me. I am sure I would be informed there are many interests to be considered. If you thought Sarek might be sympathetic to your cause because he was once married to a Terran woman, well he now has another consort and she is entirely Vulcan."

He refrained from mentioning that returning fit and healthy Terrans to the Federation, who might then take up arms against the Pasherini, was not something their enemies would ever likely agree to.

Macey opened his mouth to speak. He interrupted him. "Appeals for joining Vulcan's High Guard should be addressed to the recruiting off—"

Macey threw up his hands. "They won't entertain the idea unless we have citizenship."

"On opening the Corridan passage, I understand the Terran Embassy has made, and is continuing to make, its case for this to the Vulcan High Council."

"Incompetents!"

"Madam, gentlemen, I have not the means to address your concerns and, if you labour under the impression I might have an insight into the result of the imminent High Council vote, let me cure you of this misapprehension immediately. Politics is not my metier."

One of the Terran men, other than Macey, stepped forward and held up a holo-cube. "This is my son, Anand. I have not seen him since he was two." His face crumpled and he averted his head.

"I grieve with thee."

The woman glared at him, glared at Macey. "I said this was a waste of time, Mace. It's gonna boil down to the same old, same old." She fastened her gaze back on the tiresomely unco-operative Vulcan and he felt the full burn of a stare, weighted with loathing and contempt. She sing-songed, "The good of the many yada, yada."

Two officers, attired in Guard uniform like himself, approached from a side corridor. The elder of the two assessed the situation and addressed the Terrans. "This is a restricted area. Explain your presence here?" The peremptory form of his address did nothing for the temper of the Terrans, who bristled.

Needless security heavy-handedness. This wouldn't do at all.

"My companions came to share a remembrance of my mother. It is the anniversary of her death."

The elder security guard's eyebrows rose. "It is illogical."

"It is Terran," he said. Security's appearance was enough for his erstwhile companions; they had already withdrawn, melted into the night.

xxx

Spock stood at attention, suffering the scrutiny of Captain Shukor of the Ni'Shada, and surreptitiously scrutinised his potential commander right back. He had thought to be interviewed at Guard Headquarters, but no sooner had he arrived, and his credentials checked, than he had been transported aboard Ni'Shada, currently in standard orbit. Ni'Shada and its captain were on standby; they had earned a reputation for rapid deployment in response to any emergency.

They occupied Shukor's austere office, the captain scrolling through his data pad, consulting the report the VSA instructors had prepared. So far, his interview was not going well. Boredom, even ennui, radiated off the other person, and which Shukor felt no need to conceal. He received the distinct impression Shukor was going through the motions.

Real boredom, or testing his mettle?

Ni'Shada's orbit brought them into the light; it blazed through a port and lit up the cramped quarters, distracting him. He averted his eyes, until filters accommodated the change. Shukor seemed to barely notice. Out the port, harsh light picked out the structure of the orbital construction dock and the six new ships under assembly. Their progress was pitifully slow. The pacifist faction had a lot to answer for.

It took all of his attention to the disciplines not to betray chagrin at Shukor's apparent disdain; he stilled his body — fidgeting was out of the question. Shukor's gaze tracked from his data pad to him, as though weighing a thought, and then returned his attention to his pad.

In person, Shukor wasn't what one might expect. He looked so ordinary, with nothing in his features to separate him from the common herd; neither tall nor short; neither well nor ill-favoured. In fact, he reminded Spock of his father's personal aide, an individual born to fulfil the role of a clerk. That Captain Shukor was not wearing fleet uniform, but an over robe of desert attire, standard wear for those from the North Plateau, only furthered the impression.

It had pleased him to be put forward as a candidate for this assignment. Shukor was one of the few to survive the first Pasherin attack, the retrospective assumption being that his relative inexperience and obscurity made him a lesser target; the Pasherini pursued more recognised adversaries. Most of Vulcan's senior captains felt the full weight of the Pasherin attack and there were few who lived to see the end of the engagement.

In retrospect how the Pasherini must have rued a missed opportunity to eliminate a troublesome thorn in their side. If a Pasherin attack stalled and ended in stalemate, then Shukor was frequently the cause of their enemy's frustration. Shukor was still relatively young to hold his rank, but there was talk of a further promotion in the offing. Under Shukor's command, he expected to see action, plenty of it. First, however, Shukor had to accept him as crew.

He was notoriously choosy.

Shukor finished reading the entry and tossed the data pad onto his desk, actions betraying something suspiciously like irritation, yet Shukor's gaze was contained and composed. "Your instructors unaccountably felt the need to mention at least three times that you are half-Terran, as if I did not know you were the son of Sarek and Amanda.

Sarek's hand at work again. Calm. He steeled himself.

"I know not what to make of you, Spock. That report suggests you are an academic to the core and it has been represented to me that your constitution is ill-suited to battle." Shukor leaned back in his chair. "I was also informed it was in my best interests to interview you in person, else such an omission give insult to your clan."

"I do not seek any special treatment, sir." Clan politics? After the Pasherini, one would have thought they had put paid to old petty rivalries. This might be Vulcan, but those old, petty rivalries had persisted through to the modern era and formed the basis for political alignments in the High Council. This concerned him less, though, for the other thing that set Shukor apart was a scorn for clan affairs, probably because the clan of which he was a part, was not particularly distinguished. In fact, he was probably their most illustrious son.

"Nor would a member of Ni'Shada's crew receive it." The captain turned that searching stare on him again. "Is all this just a bid for freedom, Spock? I know Sarek has been keeping you bottled at the Science Academy. He seems not to tire of forwarding your academic accomplishments. I want no part of a power struggle between Sarek and you. Sarek would win."

"I would dispute that, Captain. It is regrettable that in the recent past my father judged me too immature," he suppressed another fidget, "too emotional to follow my own inclinations; it is true that my father constrained me to following a course of study at the VSA, as all other avenues were closed to me. However, my work is completed and my time at the VSA is at an end."

"Yes, tell me about the project you were working on."

He hesitated.

Shukor understood his reluctance. "I have the requisite security clearance, Spock. It was I who demanded the VSA address the short comings for battle in our computer systems. It was I who tested the new prototype. I was impressed."

"For all the good it will do. It was entirely a waste of my time."

Shukor's eyebrows rose.

Calm. He had delivered himself of outright petulance. "The new computer architecture redesign is faster and more efficient, but it was a pointless exercise to develop something which has little chance of being incorporated into our ships."

A bland eyebrow rose. "Well, I believe we may lay the blame for that at the feet of the Pasherini. If we should enjoy greater success in battle, and our ships and crews are less stretched, we may take ships out of commission for the new systems to be incorporated."

A reprimand.

Also Shukor maintained a politic silence, but the same agency responsible for a lagging construction schedule at the orbital dock, was the same hand throttling resources for implementing the computer redesign.

In an altogether more conciliatory tone toward his elder, he said. "If my abilities as a researcher will bear no fruit, then I should wish to serve as a line officer. As for Sarek, he may no longer determine the path of my life."

If he expected Shukor to be impressed at this speech, he was disappointed. "Spoken like a man who has suffered through his second fires. In which case, I am also now wondering why you are wasting my valuable time, Spock."

"Sir?"

"I have heard your bondmate, T'Mia, is most likely with child.

He blushed to his ears.

"Indeed, why should I take the trouble to have you ship out with us, to start undoing the damage your fleet instructors have commenced, only to have you tender your resignation on our return to base?"

"I believe my bondmate's parents have been getting ahead of themselves, Captain." He held Shukor's gaze and covered the exasperation he was feeling. Surely other members of Ni'Shada's crew were parents? "It is by no means certain that my bondmate and I are to have a child. Indeed, we would prefer to become parents when we are older and more mature."

"No matter the species, children arrive on their own time table, seldom that of their parents." An incontrovertible truth. After the upheaval of the Sickness, their society was still coming to grips with the effects, not least of which was an unusually high conception rate amongst Vulcans in Spock's age range.

"I assure you, sir, that regardless of imminent fatherhood, or not as the case may be, I still wish to serve. My bondmate, T'Mia, fully supports this decision."

"Well, it's one way to get out of the obligations of a hastily settled marriage, I suppose." Shukor looked to see if such indelicacy had provoked him. Even a mature Vulcan male might bristle at any suggestion a bondmate would be ready to abandon him, and incite a young, unsure Vulcan into outright anger. He seemed interested to note his jab had no effect. There was an advantage to suffering the aggravations Sarek had delivered over the years; it had ensured he was not thin skinned.

He treated the captain to a raised eyebrow. "Did I pass, sir?"

Shukor would not be drawn. "Pass?"

"My research on your style of leadership led me to understand this sort of abrasive comment is something you frequently use to test the disposition of potential new crew, sir." Shukor regarded him with the impassive gravity of a mature Vulcan. "If I were to shrink from your comments, just imagine how I might respond when confronted with the truly deplorable manners of our Pasherin adversaries."

"Your instructors are right. You are full of yourself."

He said nothing and assumed the guise of perfect Vulcan rectitude, while wondering if he had miscalculated.

Shukor pointed at the data pad, where it lay on his desk. "Your more sympathetic instructors were at pains to point up your high scores on the simulators. If they were hoping to impress me, they missed the mark. There's a big difference between simulators and real life scenarios."

"A fair assessment and a logical concern, Captain, but the only way to correct that deficiency is to acquire experience."

"Yes, it is." Captain Shukor planted his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers together. "Tell me, Spock, what career would you have followed had the war not come?"

"Captain?" He allowed a little Vulcan surprise, expressed in a climbing eyebrow, to show at that. This was so very un-Vulcan, to — as his mother would have said — stick his nose into another's personal affairs. More provocation, which he supposed was the objective, but the question surprised him and, that he had not anticipated this line of enquiry, assailed his confidence. He was unsure of how to respond.

"Indulge me, Spock. Spare my patience and forgo the usual orthodoxy of informing me of the illogic of such an enquiry." His hesitation had been noted. Shukor pounced. "Something out of the ordinary, then? Whatever it is, you may be assured I shall keep your secret."

He looked down at his ridiculous, polished boots, understanding that Shukor wanted something from him that would set him apart from other candidates. An opportunity, but he would have to trust to Shukor's discretion.

"Before the Sickness, I had thought to join Starfleet, before events overtook my ambitions."

For the first time, the captain's attention seemed fully engaged; he seemed pleased, although he could not account for why.

Shukor was disposed to enlighten him. "That's the most unexpected thing I have heard in a while. Unexpected is good. Perhaps you can extend the same attribute towards the Pasherini. Keep them guessing."

He was in.

There was a strange gleam in Shukor's eye. "Starfleet. Such a notion must have pleased Sarek no end."

It was something he had never discussed with Sarek. He treated Shukor's comment as a rhetorical statement; his desire to serve did not extend to being drawn into a discussion of Sarek with this man. Proving that his new captain recognised such boundaries, too, Shukor changed the subject.

"Your affairs are in order?

"Yes, sir, I have only to beam my personal effects aboard ship."

"Good, because we may ship out at a moment's notice. If you have second thoughts about this now is the time to speak up and remove yourself from my ship."

Spock stayed silent.

"Very well, Sub-Lieutenant Spock, I bid you welcome aboard."

xxx

AN: Feedback makes my day. Even if you didn't like it, constructive criticism always helps if it shows where I am going wrong.


	3. Chapter 3: The Terran Whisperer

AN: face palm — I posted the wrong file for Chapter 2. Arghh! I have now revised it, but if you read it as soon as it went up, all you need to be aware of is a little more exposition: Vulcan has an orbital construction dock at which six new ships are being assembled; progress is slow because Vulcan's peace faction are throttling resources; Spock's own computer redesign project was affected by similar interference and he, too, was denied resources.

AN: I'm not sure it's obvious but Pasherin is singular; Pasherini is plural

AN: my working title for this chapter was Bunfight at the Vulcan Corral

xxx

The quickest way of ending a war is to lose it. ~ George Orwell

xxx

The unfamiliar tunnels were labyrinthine and difficult to negotiate in the darkness. He adjusted the uncomfortable lamp strap he'd fastened about his head. The thing, designed for eyes other than those of his race, was almost useless; only the locator, with its shielded power supply, so it would not prompt the curious to investigate, kept him on the path. The locator pinged a warning and at the same time the tunnel expanded into a much larger chamber.

He allowed himself an easier breath; he disliked confined spaces.

A figure moved into the beam. "T'Pau has granted the official known as Zeinab Baumann a private audience."

"Yes," he agreed.

"I am astonished T'Pau has consented to such a meeting."

"The talk is that Baumann will discuss providing aid and assistance to repatriated Federation citizens."

"Unlikely. Since when does T'Pau concern herself with the minutia of such arrangements? She has staff to attend to such paltry matters."

"I said that was what the talk was about. I did not say I concurred with the conclusion. I don't know why T'Pau adjusted her schedule for Baumann."

"This Baumann knows?"

"I do not see how that is feasible. She may be a Federation official, but she is of junior and inconsequential rank, without access to sensitive data."

"She knows."

"I would counsel you against doing anything rash. If something were to happen to her, it would arouse the curiosity of others, would raise questions we do not want others even beginning to shape."

"Do you have any other relevant information about this individual?"

"No."

The other turned to leave.

"Wait, I mean it when I said it would be a bad idea to do anything rash…" He was talking to empty air. This had not gone well. He retreated his steps, beset with apprehension for the future.

xxx

The reception for Vulcan's guests was a surprising crush.

Spock checked, but so far there were no signs of their _honoured_ Pasherin visitors. For that matter, T'Pau and Shukor were also absent. The High Council Leadership might be hosting the event, but T'Pau had apparently worked behind the scenes and prevailed to claim as the venue the ancient and now appositely named _Safehold of Mourning_. Even so, the choice barely accommodated High Council Members; High Guard officers; Madam Fofana and her fellow Terran Enclave representatives; Orions; trade lobbyists; even a belligerence of Klingons.

Indeed, a disgruntled Klingon, who looked as though he'd already been at the blood wine — his own supply presumably — had almost mowed he and T'Mia down as they entered. T'Pau, and not the High Council, must have invited the warrior and his cohorts. No doubt she had a logical rationale, but her reasoning escaped him. It seemed hardly credible their role was merely to serve as the means to arouse Pasherin annoyance, no matter the appeal in such a provocation.

"Fascinating," said T'Mia.

He raised an enquiring eyebrow at the excited interest that sparked over their connection.

"I do not get out much," she said, "and since the healer I consulted confirmed the pregnancy, you have been ridiculously protective."

He swallowed a response. She was right. His instincts had been to wrap his bondmate in a protective cocoon of comfort and security, except T'Mia would never stand for it. Save for T'Pau insisting on their presence, he would never have contemplated bringing his bondmate to a place where Pasherini would be present. He suppressed his own lack of enthusiasm; no reason to blight T'Mia's interest and enjoyment.

"Spock, over there." T'Mia's face, a model of correct Vulcan propriety, betrayed no expression, but their link bubbled with quicksilver amusement. The discreet tone directed him to the far wall, where High Council Member Stanshak and some of his allies were doing their best to take offence at vegetables. They looked askance at the food offerings, as if expecting to find an ox roasting upon a spit there, absurd posturings which probably derived from a close proximity to so many Terrans, known for appalling appetites. He doubted Stanshak appreciated how unappealing Terrans would find the fare. Stanshak was harmless. His outlook was deeply conservative with no regard or respect for Terrans, but his positions were so extreme he wielded little influence in council.

"Spock, T'Mia, you're here!"

"Good evening, Madam Fofana."

Yasmin Fofana cast an assessing eye over his wife's attire. "Allow me a homeworld indulgence and let me say you look lovely. That blue silk works for you." Fofana smirked at him. "How is the Terran Whisperer?"

"Yasmin, please don't call me that."

"Whyever not? It's not as if there are other Vulcans, who get what teasing is all about, and to whom I may do my worst with impunity."

"I am well," he said, choosing not to address that silly appellation, which contained more of a barb than Madam Fofana realised. A tally of disappointments had multiplied on realising Shukor's use for his services lay in translating mere comm chatter Terran idioms, instead of employing his analytical skills in taking the battle to the Pasherini. T'Mia, uneasy at the prospect of any sort of combat, had nevertheless silenced her misgivings and, with a touching loyalty, pointed out he was still learning the full scope of his new duties. Shukor's caution was only logical.

"I understand you have been unwell, Madam Fofana," T'Mia said.

"Call me Yasmin. Madam Fofana is far too much formality between friends."

Friends. Yasmin's friendship with his mother had lasted for more than fifteen years. It was the sort of relationship with his family one might have expected to falter and diminish upon his mother's death, for Yasmin was in her late sixties with little in common with him, but not a bit of it. He was not so foolish as to miss his appeal as a contact, one that Yasmin assiduously cultivated, lay in his family's connections, especially his access to T'Pau. A born politician, Yasmin had been adroit, at least, in how she fostered that friendship, careful not to push for more than he was able or willing to give.

He had not seen her for several months and he was struck by how much it seemed she had aged, her features etched with strain and worry. Wild rumours circulated of Terrans, stranded on Vulcan, being handed over as enemy combatants to the Pasherini, rumours he would discount as preposterous. Except… he'd thought the same about Pasherini being welcomed on Vulcan to discuss a peace accord.

T'Pau had attempted to push a move, currently stalled, through the High Council to grant these stateless Terrans and other non-Vulcans citizenship, but from the evidence of his eyes, it seemed they placed little faith in that initiative and still expected to be handed over to Pasherini as spoils of war in any peace settlement. He had heard rumours of what any treaty might concede; they had cause for concern.

Little wonder Yasmin had been unwell.

Yasmin allowed a fleeting grin to appear. "I was warned the place would be lousy with Pasherini." Those who did not know her might well take her humour at face value and not understand she frequently joked to hide distress.

"Give it time," he said, in the same vein, minus the grin. "I would venture they are determined to make an entry with brio and éclat." A flash of bright colours: gold and a predominance of red, attracted his attention. "Speaking of making an entrance." Uniforms. Those in Starfleet attire kept close order with a woman garbed in civilian dress. The Federation envoy and her Starfleet escort were here.

Yasmin's head snapped round; she muttered an apology to them and charged. A slight frisson of alarm rippled through the Starfleet personnel, particularly those dressed in the more muted grey of their security service, as Yasmin bore down on the envoy, until sense prevailed and they perceived her as a non-threat. Nor was Yasmin alone in seeking her objective; seemingly every marooned Terran, every marooned non-Vulcan in the room massed in a swarm and arrowed for them.

As if the Federation and Starfleet party's arrival heralded a cue, T'Pau and Sarek appeared, T'Pau accompanied by Shukor; Sarek with Sarmak glued to his side. His eyebrows rose. T'Chella, Sarmak's sister, and his father's new consort, his bondmate in waiting, also comprised part of the entourage. Her appearance caused a pang, enough to make T'Mia sense it, but he mastered his emotions and his illogic. His father must take another to wife. The brutal separation caused by his mother's death, and the resulting physical and mental desolation, had averted Sarek's succumbing to pon farr. But he was overdue. It would not be long before T'Chella's status as bondmate became indivisible reality.

T'Pau and Sarek peeled apart and went their separate ways, taking their followers with them. Another dispiriting sight: T'Pau, largely abandoned, with only those most loyal to the Matriarch attending her. The majority instead flocked to another who was perceived to be the new power house on Vulcan: Sarek.

T'Mia's fingers brushed against his hand, less ostentatious than a finger touch, almost as reassuring. T'Pau's gaze locked on he and T'Mia and they answered the unspoken summons. Sarek noted T'Pau's gambit and looked away. He and T'Mia settled in behind the matriarch, face immobile, betraying nothing of how much he detested this show. Shukor, himself remained contained and silent and T'Pau, with her back toward him, was little better source of interest. He listened and he observed, since for the present that was all he might do.

As ever, Sarmak circulated in full-on lobbying mode: peace good; conflict bad.

Yasmin and a small coterie of Terran Enclave leaders came over to greet T'Pau, but their conversation was notably devoid of all substance. So much for T'Pau doing her best to push through citizenship for them. Because these things apparently mattered, at least they had the grace to greet T'Pau first before going on to speak to Sarek.

"Are the Pasherini planning to attend, T'Pau?" he asked.

"I am advised they have been delayed."

Neither T'Pau nor Shukor rose to the bait of an enquiring look.

At least the Federation principal and her Starfleet minders were present. Few were aware Federation Commissioner Zeinab Baumann and Admiral du Plessis had met with T'Pau and Shukor just prior to this reception, an unofficial meeting, and aboard Ni'Shada no less, which would have given them a little leeway to be late. Yet, their punctilious time keeping — no Pasherin games for them — provided further evidence of how little they dared trespass upon Vulcan goodwill.

The reception wore on and, his presence in T'Pau's orbit now established, he asked to be excused. By fortuitous chance, one of T'Mia's former tutors had pounced on his wife, wishing to know of progress on her current assignment. T'Mia's enthusiasm for her work provided the perfect distraction. He left her in the company of the tutor, while he located Sarek.

Sojal, Sarek's aide, saw him coming and, with a calculated incivility, used that particular moment to lean in to speak to the ambassador and draw his attention elsewhere. _Not welcome here._ "Sarek, T'Pau advises she wishes to reschedule tomorrow's appointment." Whether Sojal was put out by T'Pau having the temerity to change an appointment, or his presence, was open to interpretation. For reasons that escaped him, Sojal detested him.

"Of this I am already aware, Sojal."

"Sir," never father now. "I should wish to discuss a private matter with you."

Sarmak noted the new collar flashes on his uniform. "You are a front line officer, Spock? How long has this foolishness persisted?"

He wrestled into submission a distinctly un-Vulcan urge to tell his elder to take his opinions and his nosiness and shove it. Sarmak brought out the worst in him.

Sarmak, unconcerned at his lack of response, said, "It is disturbing to see post-Reform Vulcans rediscover a taste for violence. Continuing this struggle cannot end well for our race. Responding in like manner to aggression betrays what Vulcan stands for and will achieve nothing other than more suffering. The sooner this war is over, the better."

"Indeed, Sarmak? I am minded that a wise Terran once said, 'The best way to end a war is to lose it.'" A pregnant pause followed, during which he stared at Sarmak in outright challenge.

Sarek stirred. "I apologise for the insolence of my son, my old friend, since it seems he will not offer one for himself. Spock, attend." Sarek led him to a small ante-room off the main chamber and closed the door behind them."

In a milder manner, than expected, Sarek said, "I would ask you extend me the courtesy of not embarrassing my friends in public. There is merit in Sarmak's viewpoint about what violence may cost Vulcan. The essence of our natures lies in wait for all our kind."

His eyebrows flew towards his bangs at the lack of a biting reprimand. A closer examination betrayed Sarek looked almost spent. Rumours abounded that Pasherin demands for peace were exorbitant and fatigue to this degree leant credence to the reports. Sarek stared at him, taking in every detail of his form, of his attire.

"I agree. Except Sarmak makes his case as though I were a babe incapable of cogent thought."

"You have been assigned to Ni'Shada?" Of course Sarek would know. Sarek swallowed a following comment, no doubt an opinion on him becoming a front line officer. What might Sarek do? By ancient custom, married offspring owned all the rights of an adult and his opinion on the subject therefore carried no weight. No Vulcan ever anticipated the full ramifications of what the Sickness wrought on their world.

"Yes, it was that I wished to speak to you about."

"If you regret the assignment, I understand you are placed as a probationer and may ask to revert to reserve or auxiliary status without demerit."

"On the contrary, sir." He drew himself up straighter and stared at Sarek. "The necessities of my new position dictated I should have taken a formal leave-taking of my family, in the event I should fall." To his surprise, Sarek's face turned impassive, unreadable, at that. "Allow me to say, I understand the value and necessity of a gatekeeper, but you should correct Sojal, who has been blocking my desire to see you for weeks."

"I was not aware of this. Very well, I shall address his conduct."

He nodded, allowed an element of entreaty to colour his voice, if not his expression. "I am again shipping out at some time in the future — I may say no more than that. If the worst should happen, there shall be sufficient resources in my estate for T'Mia and my…" he would not blush, he would not, "dependants."

At the word 'dependants', Sarek's gaze snapped up. "T'Mia is with child."

"Yes."

Sarek looked at him, the realisation of what he was saying sinking in. "You want—"

He reached inside the hip pocket on his uniform and brought out a data wafer, which he offered. "This is my will. In the event of my death, sir, I ask that you be the executor of my estate."

Sarek stared at the wafer frozen. For the first time in his memory, Sarek had no quick rejoinder to offer. For a moment he thought he would be denied, but then a hand closed over the wafer and the other gave him a taut nod.

"Thank you, sir."

Perhaps it was his imagination, but as he turned on his heel and left, he thought he heard 'your mother's child' muttered in his wake.

xxx

He had taken no more than a dozen paces away from the ante-chamber where he had made his request of Sarek, when a bookish looking individual blocked his route back to T'Mia

"You are Spock?"

What now? He said nothing, but his inquisitor answered his own question. "Yes, you are he."

"What do you wish of me?"

"I am Auditor Teshar."

"That offers no illumination of your purpose."

"There are budget irregularities."

Spock's eyebrows rose. "Then I fail to see how I may assist you. I am a serving military officer and have no training in financial matters."

"Indeed, not you. I desire to speak with T'Pau."

Spock held out a palm to point the way to where T'Pau stood in conversation with Shukor. "She is there before you."

"Every time I attempt to approach her, I am stopped and told there are proper channels I must negotiate." Indeed, one of T'Pau's aides kept an attentive eye upon Teshar, from which he gathered the auditor had already made a pest of himself in attempting to approach T'Pau, and which necessitated a recourse to Plan B.

"Then I may add nothing further. There are indeed proper channels you must negotiate. I hardly think I constitute one of them."

"But your relationship to the Matriarch. No other means of an introduction affords itself."

So, merely yet another who thought to exploit his familial relationships. Tonight, such entreaties, long past tiresome, stretched his patience; "I cannot assist you." He backed away.

Teshar moved to follow him, but one of T'Pau's staff planted herself in the interloper's path. Freed from further importuning, he left the auditor and went to seek out his bondmate.

xxx


	4. Chapter 4: Friends Like These

AN: Do you need to go back a chapter? I posted chapters 3 and 4 at the same time.

xxx

It might be Vulcan, hardly terra incognita, but it pleased Ensign James T Kirk to step out on a planet so very different from Earth and see for himself how other races lived. It was almost a novel experience for him — one could hardly count Mars — and hearkened back to what had once motivated him to join Starfleet. The higher gravity, and the faint nausea his tri-ox shot caused, not to mention the constricting dress uniform, all entirely worth the discomfort.

Unlike this mission.

He spotted the silver grey of a Security and Intelligence dress uniform and smiled as Gary Mitchell formed up beside him.

"Someone," said Gary, with a baleful stare at the antiquated palace their hosts had deemed appropriate for the occasion, "should tell Vulcans they haven't a clue how to throw a party. I need a drink." He stared at the water glass in his hand. "I mean a drink, drink."

Gary's expression was so mournful, it prompted a snicker. "On Vulcan? Good luck with that, my friend. The place is dry in more ways than one."

Mitchell's eyes followed the unsteady progress of a Klingon — yes, a Klingon! — weaving his way through the throng of delegates. "Think he'd let me sample some of his stash of bloodwine?"

"I don't know, but can I be there when you ask him?" He spared Gary a glance. "What's up with you?"

"Me? I have nothing to do. Absolutely nothing to do. This is a waste of our time and resources."

"Yep."

"If there's not going to be a deal, then, my boss does not require my services." Gary huffed. "My Aunt Betsy has more spine than these gutless Vulcan wonders."

"You don't really have an Aunt Betsy." He pricked up his ears. If Gary was in a bitching mood, he could sometimes be encouraged to cough up interesting tidbits of information.

"But if I did, she would definitely have more spine."

"Vulcan going to seal off its borders with the rest of the Federation?"

He would have expected Gary to be forthright, to say the Federation should wake up to reality, cut Vulcan loose, and let the Pasherini have at it. Gary said nothing, though, which meant the conversation was straying too close to a topic his friend had been warned to be discrete about. Was that good or bad? He didn't know any longer. Six years ago, his parents died because a Vulcan ship had not lifted a finger to come to the aid of _Lucy, _too scared to provoke the Pasherini by engaging their Orion bootlickers. Losing Vulcan would be bad for the Federation, but as far as he was concerned, it would stop all the shilly-shallying and address Vulcan's two-faced double dealing once and for all. If Vulcan ratified the peace deal with the Pasherini, the Federation was better off without them. Even if that meant the Pasherini might then be free to concentrate more of their efforts on the Klingon Empire, currently providing a buffer against Pasherin expansion into what was left of Federation territory.

Gary nudged him to direct his attention. "And here they come. Fashionably late, I see, and making quite the entrance."

He had never seen a Pasherin in the flesh before. Some comparative anthropologists said they were related to Vulcans, the pointed ears suggested that. Still, however diabolical one would care to paint Vulcans and Vulcan motives in recent years, one would probably draw the line at horns like the Pasherin sported, a vestigial pair to be sure, little more than buds, sprouting out of the temple above each eye, but horns nonetheless. Six Pasherini, all male, all hefty specimens. One of them looked his way and he caught a glimpse of yellow eyes, cat's eyes.

Mitchell let out a low whistle. "Marterok is here and he brought Santa's little helper, Juka, too. That other guy is—"

"Tosshal. Thank you, Gary, but I am aware of today's runners and riders." Gary wasn't immune from the S &amp; I tendency to lord it over others by showing off greater knowledge and understanding. He shut that right down. "I know Marterok is a Gerent, second only to their Magnus in importance. Juka seems to have found favour, too, and his career is advancing nicely, unlike our friend, Tosshal's. It seemed his own sponsor, Chenagan, came close to being implicated in an attempted palace coup. Needless to say Marterok and his people loathe Chenagan's people and vice versa. Juka has been courting the good opinion of the Vulcan High Council Leadership with lamentable success. This reception is being hosted by T'Pau, but the Council Leadership tried and failed to wrest control of this shindig away from her. By the way, is T'Pau even present?"

"Yes."

"Her political foes in the High Council Leadership are doing their best to marginalise her, but the old trout won't oblige." He offered Gary a smirk. "How am I doing?"

"Now, you're just showing off. Jim, you're wasted on a ship posting. You should transfer into S &amp; I."

"And wear that awful black uniform? I look better in gold and I like being a tactical officer. While we're on the subject, was it you who was responsible for the transfer orders to Mars?"

Gary toasted him with his glass and a grin. "Yes. Someone owed me a favour."

Too much. His right hand cinched tight around his friend's elbow and he hauled him behind a pillar. He glared, but kept his voice down. "What the hell were you thinking, Gary? Mars? You want me sick with perchlorate toxicity again, or dying of boredom? Again! Six weeks as a mid-shipman was more than enough."

Gary's face reddened and he pushed him away, rubbing at his bruised elbow. "Well pardon me for caring. I know Goodbore is making your life a misery."

"He's my captain. Please don't call him that."

"He can't hear. He's over there, hobnobbing with the great and good." Gary jerked his head in the direction of the Pasherini. "Think Commander Goodborne has all of what you just gave me figured out yet?"

He bit back an answer on the last. "Anyway, your intervention didn't do any good; the captain vetoed the transfer."

"Aw for—"

"Yep."

Gary studied the floor for a moment and prodded a toe at a seam of the ancient stone flags. He cleared his throat. "Jim, I'm sorry if I overstepped, but I was trying to help you out. I know you wouldn't have been on Mars for long and S &amp; I needs tactical officers. Your skills are transferable."

He consciously relaxed the tension in his shoulders. "Apology accepted. Let's change the subject." The crowd parted and revealed a very pretty woman. "I fancy a taste of Vulcan. I'm going in. Wish me luck."

What the milling crowd giveth, it taketh away; he lost sight of the woman. Also, on second thoughts maybe Vulcan cuisine wasn't for him. The food offered was presumably very much the sort of fare to appeal to Vulcans and probably Pasherini, but not exactly inclined to make his mouth water. Whoever was responsible for the catering evidently didn't care for Terrans and weren't disposed to pull out a welcome mat. He stared at a small, round fruit or vegetable, he wasn't sure which, and considered tormenting his taste buds.

"You won't like them," said a Vulcan. He wore a Vulcan High Guard fleet uniform and earlier he'd seen the guy in close attendance to the one Vulcan for whom he did have patience: Shukor.

"Well now I've gotta try it. I haven't had fresh produce in months." He grabbed a plate, hauled onto it what looked like an unripe, and mis-shaped, cherry tomato and paused. This was hardly finger food. The Vulcan pointed to an array of elongated forks and he picked one, speared his objective. He chewed and promptly wished he hadn't. His mouth puckered at the sourness, while every single salivary gland had apparently abandoned the cause.

The other wordlessly handed him a glass of water.

"Thanks."

"You are welcome."

He swallowed, praying the morsel wouldn't desire a curtain call, and spared a closer eye for his companion. Those were hardly Vulcan manners, but his features were indistinguishable from any other Vulcan's. With a start, he realised who this guy was.

"You are Ambassador Sarek's son."

"I am Spock." Something closed off behind the Vulcan's eyes, something more than the usual impassive manner of a Vulcan.

"Jim Kirk." His captain had drilled it into him that he should not offer any Vulcan a handshake, even though the Academy had this covered: acceptable-behaviour-for-interacting-with-non-Terran-species-101. So he inclined his head in a slight bow. "I wasn't expecting something like a strawberry. Strawberries! Oh boy, why did I go there? Still, that was..."

"Plomeek is not conducive to a Terran palate."

"I'll say." He tried not to gulp down more of the water in his glass.

"Strawberries have much to recommend them, not least of which is that they present an honest face to the beholder. They wear their seeds on the outside and one finds no unwelcome surprises lurking within." His companion's gaze lingered on Sarek for the briefest of instants.

Er, what now? Before he had time to submit the words to further analysis, the Vulcan gave him a nod of his own and moved away. He checked on his captain and, Gary was right, Commander Goodborne was making nice with the admiral and Federation Commissioner Zeinab Baumann, for all the good it would do his hapless captain. Admiral du Plessis looked a little surly, beset on one side by Goodborne's gaucherie and on the other by Madam Fofana, pro tem leader of the Terran Enclave, or what some had apparently taken to calling the Stranded. Plainly, they had no need of the services of a junior officer. The mass of reception guests shifted and the pretty girl he'd spotted earlier, again hove into view; those pointed ears looked enchanting on her. He made a beeline.

"Hi."

She looked at him, then checked behind to see whether he was actually addressing another.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"I do not require refreshment."

_What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?_ Maybe not. Hadn't he seen her in T'Pau's company? "Are you part of the team negotiating with the Pasherini?"

"No."

Conversing with Vulcans could be an uphill struggle. "Then what's your line of work?"

"I am in shit."

"I know just what you mean." Someone should recalibrate the universal translator; it's output was probably programmed a little too on the nose.

"Waste processing. To be specific, historical waste processing. I am one of a team engaged in excavating a pre-Reform cloacal outlet."

Universal translator fritziness, check. "You're an archaeologist?"

"I am in training, yes."

"My name's Jim Kirk."

"I am called T'Mia."

"Pretty name."

"My wife, attend."

The Vulcan with the penchant for strawberries was back, manner forbidding and proprietorial. He drew T'Mia away, while upping the gain on a _back-off buster_ signal directed his way.

Oh, great, Goodborne had spotted that little exchange and was headed over. Time for his daily chewing-out.

"Ensign Kirk."

"Sir."

"Don't make me regret assigning you to this landing party, Mister. One pretty face and you promptly lose your senses. Cut it out!"

"Sir."

Goodborne went off in a snit.

"Oh, dear," said Zeinab, who'd followed in Goodborne's wake. "Do you think some of that was because of me?"

"What? No! I mean, I don't think so." He shrugged. "My captain hardly needs an excuse to be displeased with me. Although, I'm not exactly sure what I have done to incur his wrath this time."

"Vulcan males can be possessive over their women. Exhibit A, cast your eyes in the direction of that fellow, Spock."

"Yeah, I got the memo, Zeinab." The Vulcan still presented him with a face frosty, and forbidding. He grinned and gave him a friendly wave. "I was only talking to her. She looked nice."

"Nice? C'mon, Jim, you know better than that."

"Apparently not."

"Then consider yourself chastised, Ensign Kirk." Zeinab's expression morphed from amusement to utter seriousness in the space of a second. "It occurs to me I haven't thanked you."

"Was the information helpful?"

"More than I imagined. T'Pau has agreed to meet with me in a non-official capacity. I have an appointment to see her tomorrow evening."

Her words caught him mid sip and he coughed. His eyebrows were somewhere near his hairline. "T'Pau agreed to meet with you?" More spluttering.

"I am as astonished as you." She danced from foot to foot and his heart sank.

He gentled his tone. "Zeinab, I don't mean to be a wet blanket, but it has been over seven years. The Pasherini attack on Vulcan created chaos that took months for them to recover from."

"I know." She saw the doubt in his eyes. "Really, I do. I am not expecting good news, not at this point. I just want — what's that stupid word? —_closure_, so I can move on."

He offered her a squeeze of a hand. "Alright, then."

Gary gave him a whack on the shoulder, crashing their little tête-à-tête. "My friend never could resist a pretty face."

Well, it would serve to distract Zeinab. "She looked nice," he said again, "and I just wanted to talk to her."

Gary snickered. "Trust you to pick on the daughter-in-law of Sarek, Vulcan's one time Ambassador at large."

To forestall further merriment, he brought things back to business and addressed a question to Zeinab. "I know I am only the help around here, but am I allowed to ask if we are wasting our time on Vulcan?"

There was a pause, and he thought Zeinab would maintain a politic silence. She looked in the direction of Fofana and her coterie of the Stranded. "The Pasherini are open to the idea of us repatriating some Terrans left on Vulcan."

Gary snorted, rolled his eyes. "I thought I saw her and her people making a nuisance of themselves. Don't tell me: the Pasherini have generously agreed to allow aged, or infirm, Federation citizens to return home. The Pasherini regard our compassion as weakness, our willingness to expend resources on those unable to fight as more evidence of our defects."

"Nuisance, Lieutenant Mitchell? That's a little harsh for people who merely want to be allowed to go home."

"Then put it down to my crotchetiness, Madam Commissioner. I don't like that this is what the Federation is come to — begging scraps off the Pasherin's table."

He should kick Gary for his imprudence in giving voice to anger in the presence of a Federation official, no matter that Zeinab Baumann cared little about the distinctions of rank and cultivated an unassuming friendly manner, devoid of all pretentions. What had set Gary off? Yes, the ostensible reason for their presence on Vulcan was to discuss repatriation of Federation citizens, mostly Terrans, but Starfleet in its wisdom sent in Security and Intelligence and Gary answered to Admiral du Plessis, the head of S &amp; I, himself. There was a lot more going on than he was aware of; but it didn't take much imagination to figure the primary task of the Federation and Starfleet representatives was to persuade Vulcan that suing for peace with the Pasherini amounted to an astonishingly bad idea. Factor in Gary's unhappiness and a depressing, although predictable, picture started to take shape.

Pondering the future must wait. The watchful eye he'd been keeping on Commander Goodborne paid off. He received a peremptory summons. Goodborne had work for him to do.

xxx

T'Mia, ever grateful for entertainment in absurdity, was enjoying his outrage at the affront to the dignity of Vulcan masculinity. Someone had owned the effrontery to speak to her.

"High alert, Spock!" said T'Mia, under her breath. His wife, again the very picture of composed prepossession, outwardly betrayed nothing of her playfulness. "Do you know that Klingon?"

"No."

"He is heading your way." The Klingon, it seemed, could only add to her entertainment.

"Our way." He put himself between the Klingon and T'Mia, who watched agog. The Klingon, exuding equal parts truculence and a noisome aroma of blood wine, leaned into his personal space and poked him in the chest.

"What did that Terran say to you, Vulcan?"

"To look out for Klingons who cannot hold their blood wine." He held his ground and stared the Klingon dead in the eye. It earned him a scowl and a parting belch, but his interrogator, understanding he would receive no additional comment, went in search of fresh meat.

"Oh, I am so glad I came."

"As am I," said a voice behind them.

He looked over a shoulder and contained his surprise at being addressed by a Pasherin.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Juka."

Close up those yellow eyes were quite extraordinary. "I know," he said, already steering them away, not inclined to care if he gave offence.

"And you are Sub-lieutenant Spock and his esteemed bondmate, T'Mia."

He said nothing. Pasherini were the architects of Vulcan's humbling: for his mother's death; for the deaths of hundreds of thousands; for unleashing the Sickness his own child must best to live into adulthood, and he was supposed to be grateful for pretty words? T'Mia brushed his hand again and he took heart at the reassurance; it allowed him to take command of the sour burn of anger.

The Pasherin, Juka, disregarded the cold shoulder treatment. "And I gather congratulations are in order for a new arrival to your family some months hence."

This time T'Mia's hand sought comfort from a hand touch. He interposed more of his body between the Pasherin and her.

"What do you want?"

"I want to get to know you, Spock. I think you and I might become fast friends in the fullness of time."

"Then I fear you are deluded."

Juka laughed. If nothing else he had a thick skin. "I gather you have been nominated for the Zi Magni Prize." Juka bowed. "Kudos. I see where you derive your talents and accomplishments. I find Ambassador Sarek a most impressive individual."

This Pasherin was immune to all hints to leave them alone.

"Yes, Sarek is a very worthy individual and one with whom we Pasherin may do business." The Pasherin made a big production of turning his head and body around to face the other side of the Palace Chamber, where Sarek and Sarmak were deep in conversation with Marterok. Sarek said something to the Pasherin, who put his head back and laughed heartily

He was proud he didn't rise to the bait. Juka's comment was designed to provoke, even to test how he reacted. He gave the Pasherin a glacial stare, which was greeted with a quiet laugh. One of Sarmak's fellow High Councillors chose that moment to draw Juka away, sparing him the need for further response.

T'Mia, no longer amused, stared after the retreating pair and then regarded him with a degree of bewilderment he shared. "Spock, what was that Pasherin about?"

"I believe his actions can best be described as a misfired attempt at falling over himself to be agreeable."

"Ah, a charm offensive." A furrow appeared on her brow. "I must confess I do not comprehend that term."

"I do, and I find their charm offensive."

xxx

The peace faction were insufferable.

The longer this interminable event continued, the more he felt out of sorts. He calculated if he and T'Mia had wasted enough time here that they might be permitted to leave without giving offence. Although, how he felt at the moment, giving offence hardly constituted a reason for not leaving, but he would not wish to embarrass T'Mia, so he went in search of T'Pau.

"The Starfleet officer and the Pasherin spoke to you?" T'Pau said.

He treated T'Pau to a lofted eyebrow. "You have been watching me, T'Pau?"

"You will answer me."

"My interaction with the Terran was of no consequence."

"He warned him away from his bondmate," Shukor said, who had largely been silent for most of this gathering.

He fidgeted at that. "Our exchange was no more than idle chit-chat — conversation to no serious purpose," he added for his audience's benefit. "We discussed Terran fruit; strawberries, in particular."

"Fruit? That is all?"

He canted his head to one side in a manner his shipmates had complained was distracting. "Were I the sort to question my memory, I might begin to wonder, T'Pau. The Klingon officer desired a similar answer, too." He reviewed what had been said to him. "I hardly think there was an ulterior purpose to the Starfleet officer's comments, but I think it more telling there are those convinced otherwise. Although if you wish to put yourself in their good graces, I should think a delivery of fresh produce that appeals to Terrans, sent to where they are quartered, would serve you well.

"The Pasherin on the other hand is a different matter."

"How so?" T'Pau said.

"The Pasherin has advised me he desires to become my friend."

"Indeed?" said T'Pau.

"Yes," he said. "He was disagreeably persistent."

"Then," said T'Pau, "you shall oblige me and henceforth find his company agreeable."

xxx


End file.
